


Lessons

by Helicon



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Amnesia, Disclaimer: the Doll is not involved in any sex whatsoever, Face-Fucking, Gehrman doesn't get enough love and he sure doesn't get any here, Hurt/Comfort, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I'm clearly a horrible person but I wouldn't do that, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Restraints, Suicide Attempt, Tentacle Sex, tentative Other tag bc what is MP's gender even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 23:52:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9147508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helicon/pseuds/Helicon
Summary: The first rule of being the Host of a Dream is you don't try to stop being the Host of a Dream.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say for myself. I spent a grand total of eight hours working and reworking this and taking breaks at regular intervals to kinkshame myself. I have done my time, I've been enabled by multiple people, I've procrastinated so hard on this because the self-kinkshame was so real. This is the part where your dear uncle Helicon throws himself into the Sin Bin for his crimes, and takes nightmaredaisy with him for bringing the Doll into it.

The hunter fell, finally, their body sinking into the dense flower field and momentarily bloodying the blooms before they faded out of that particular existence. This latest one, Gehrman decided, had quite the tenacity -- dragging themselves back into the Dream again and again only to find their deaths at his blade merely a setback until now, when moments passed and they failed to return and the flames licking at the walls of the Workshop died down.

 

Tenacity, sure, but they were still completely delusional and maybe a little stupid. Rambling something about freeing him, like they didn't know what was better for themselves in the first place. Like they hadn't grasped what would have been awaiting them had they not eventually accepted their freedom from the terrible Dream. They must have felt noble in their own mind, and though an admirable trait it was, they would have suffered all the more for it.

 

Stowing his weapon away in its sheath, the First Hunter glanced upward at the Moon that seemed to tremble in the sky; the both of them waiting in anticipation of what must have been the same thing. The continuation of the Hunt, another Hunter to catalyze it. The same thing, over and over again. Years upon years of how many different faces and people blurred into a forgettable nothing that only the Doll really seemed to remember? 

 

Maybe he was tired of it.

 

Maybe that last hunter was right.

 

The ostensible way of ending the Dream was to destroy or usurp its creator, but bound to the Moon Presence as he was, Gehrman was in no state to try either. He wasn't even sure that he  _ wanted _ to try. The last thing he needed was more Great One blood on him.

 

In hindsight, he must have thought himself awful clever to stare directly into the Moon itself, detached scythe-head in hand and a wicked grin starting to form across his face as the blade came right up -- such an awkward angle, but it couldn't be helped, it was meant for cutting down others and it'd get the job done well enough anyhow -- to his throat.

 

It fell. It fell, just shy of drawing blood. It fell, or he dropped it, when the sudden awful throb in his skull blinded him to all else but it, deafened to everything save for the quiet  _ whump _ as he collapsed to the ground like every bone in his body had gone soft, like every nerve and muscle ceased to function. 

 

The icy chill as the Great One descended. The quiet voice of the Doll, disturbing in its familiarity, from a distance, then beside, then right behind him. She sat down delicately in the flowers, pulled Gehrman into her lap, cape draped haphazardly over her skirt now -- though the urge to struggle away was great, he found himself still incapable of moving much more than his eyes -- and wrapped her arms around his chest, whispering what probably should have been something comforting but was instead overshadowed by the actual shadow of the Moon Presence looming over them both.

 

Dread washed over him at the low gurgling noises from above. The Doll, unperturbed, only continued to hold him there as the Great One landed on all giant clawed fours, the void of its face tilted inquisitively to the side and yet still sinister.

 

“She's only disappointed,” said the Doll, petting one shoulder in as loving of a way that something so innately inhuman could. “You will be alright.”

 

The gentle lilt of her voice and the touch of her hands, her head leaning against his, did absolutely nothing to detract from the sheer terror of the situation. The Moon Presence rumbled and shrieked, leaning in close, lowering its body just as Gehrman regained enough control of his arms to pull his hat over his face. He didn't want to see any of this. The shame was enough in knowing there was no saving himself, in that he  _ should _ have known, and did, but still chose to chase after release on his own.

 

Something slippery slithered up his neck, around his jaw, which promptly shut tight in reflex. It prodded at his bottom lip, receiving no reaction it seemed to want, and instead a defiant whine from deeper in the Hunter’s throat. Looking out from under the hat’s brim, he watched as the Moon Presence made a forced shrug-like movement and hooked its claws into his waistband.

 

As ever, the Doll remained perfectly calm, even as Gehrman began to squirm and make as forceful a dissent and attempt at escape as he could with so little feeling and control of most of his body. She only held tighter, speaking in that soft voice of hers, everything would be alright, it would be over soon, she was there for him. 

 

It hoisted both his legs up and drew his pants down the bare minimum for something far bigger than the tentacle still lazing at the corner of his mouth to prod at his ass and make his back arch upwards in surprise.

 

“Shh,” said the Doll. “Be calm. You could hurt yourself, if you move like that.”

 

What came out in response was supposed to be a terrified “I don't care!”, but instead was a series of growls behind clenched teeth. The slick, slightly tapered end slowly pushed into him and, lacking in the ability to  _ stop _ it, he could only accept its entry and suppress a cry as it stopped for a second, then plowed ferociously in the rest of the way. Tears beaded in his eyes and with the hand that wasn't holding down his hat, he grasped the Doll’s arm in desperation as she stroked his chest through the thick fabric of his jacket.

 

As it pulled out, Gehrman refused to make the mistake of thinking it was over, and as such was not left too terribly disappointed when it paused halfway and then thrust back in, continuing in a steady pattern for what felt like forever with naught but the guttural noises of the Moon Presence and the Doll’s soothing voice in his ear. Even the faint stirring beneath the front of his trousers did nothing to distract from the situation, the surreality of it all, the cosmic horror of being taken by something four times his size that still at that very moment held his life between its talons.

 

In a way, the Doll was right; there was no point in trying to fight back now. This was punishment of the kind he had never prepared to contend with. Lesson learned, get it over with,  _ make it stop-- _

 

It didn't. 

 

With dizzying force the Great One picked up speed, lifting his backside up a little higher for a better angle, pounding the Hunter raw until his cock slipped free of its confines, half-erect, coming to rest on the hem of his vest and dribbling precum in short intervals. Its pace now wild and erratic, through no clear pleasure of its own, the Moon Presence warbled and hissed at the still-resisting human below it, prodding much more assertively at his mouth until he either relented or was forced.

 

It could wait, but it certainly was not going away anytime soon. It wanted him to know, and know well: it would not ease up on this punishment until he submitted entirely.

 

A shove upward by the trunk-like length inside him made Gehrman throw his head back onto the Doll’s shoulder with a howl, still grappling at her arm and easing carelessly into her touch as he climaxed, brief spasms sullying his vest and jacket all the same. Normally, though this was far from normal (and he wished it to stay that way for his own sake), he might have a conniption over a mess like this -- but any thoughts he still had were quashed by the tentacle that seized its opportunity and was shoved down his throat by the finally semi-satisfied alien positioned over the two of them. 

 

Once perfectly content to have a hand on the Doll, for grounding if not comfort, it was quickly brought up to his neck as he tried to choke up the tendril, eyes wide, ears ringing, cries stifled by the intrusion. He barely noticed her gaze shift to the Moon Presence, who only continued fucking his mouth in tandem with his ass. The feeling in his head, like pins and needles, threatened to take him under while his throat was rubbed red and burning by the thin, thrashing limb. The Doll held fast, saying things he was too far gone conscious-wise to understand, until it all faded into black.

 

In the very back of his mind, he was vaguely aware of the tentacles drawing quietly out of him, leaving with a wet smack to the cheek and thigh. He was lifted, though by a pair of arms beneath his back and knees as opposed to the great eldritch beast’s massive hands, and no longer felt the cold air on his backside.

 

That faint awareness left with the Doll’s reassuring voice, echoing as a rumble in her chest: “Sleep now, Gehrman; the night is still long.”

 

One nightmare led into another, and whether it was going from wakefulness to sleep or vice-versa, Gehrman couldn't tell until he opened his eyes to a rather horizontal view of the Workshop and the Doll’s hand laying gently on his head, in her lap, stroking down to his shoulder like she was comforting a frightened dog. 

 

Looking briefly over the area in search of his wheelchair and at the same time trying to get off of her, he found nothing other than the inability to stand or put any sort of weight on his lower back without aching. He shook his head and tried again, teeth gritted, groaning and then moreso at how much it tore at his throat to make a single sound. It only worsened until he quickly decided shutting up was the only reasonable course of action to take.

 

With the silent assurance that her maker was not about to keel over, no matter how much he felt like it, regardless of that bitter irony (and that he would think to try to  _ die _ left some strange and unknown sinking feeling in her), the Doll stole off into the field to retrieve the wheelchair, leaving the old man to his thoughts.

 

It ended, then, with the First Hunter bracing himself against the stone wall, mouthing frustrated and pained obscenities. He struggled to recall what had happened, but only built up a killer migraine for his trouble in addition to the bruising.

  
He could always try again, if he ever remembered the risk enough to decide it worthy of the reward.


End file.
